Mode is Clueless
by StudyInViolet
Summary: Murder, mayhem, and suspicous weapons. Can detectives Betty and Henry, along with sidekick Kenny, figure out who killed Mr. Meade, and more importantly how not to be murdered as well?
1. In which the mystery begins

Mode is Clueless

Chapter One

"Can any of you tell me who killed Mr. Meade?"

The guests looked and not looked at each others, in various degrees of discomfort, Betty noted in her notebook.

Beside her, the detective and her partner, Henry Grubstick sighed, heavily. She could tell that this wasn't the assignment he wanted his name on, and Betty felt slightly guilty because it was mostly her fault that they were even there.

Kenny stood behind them next to the wardrobe, very admirably taking up the task of guarding the six probable murder weapons. It was task Betty had said with her widest smile as possible that required great strength, dignity, and most of all not to say a single word. It was something both she and Henry agreed was vital so another murder wouldn't take place.

Mr. Bradford Meade was a celebrated multimillionaire in the city. Known for his massive empire as well as his somewhat less than cordial philanthropy, Mr. Meade was a figure that many admired and hate simultaneously. But was it enough to cause his death?

"Why would we tell you anything?" the blond said filing her nails, she crossed her lithe legs on the ottoman causing her little red dress to slide up as the man in a yellow suit followed with his eyes.

"After all," a woman is crisp white suit said icily, her perfectly manicured fingers stroking her collar, "You should be able tell us that, you're the detective are you not?"

She began to rise to herwhen Henry flashed once again the warrant at the group of people, prompting her to sit back down. "All six of you were here tonight. You're the only ones who could have done it."

"Well this is very big mansion," a slender man dressed entirely in violet said. His ascot was covered in large polka dots which he would tug at every few moments. "Who knows what the hired help could have done it."

"They wouldn't have done anything," Betty snapped taking the bait.

"Ha, what makes you so sure? You weren't here were you," quipped the man in violet.

"Getting her upset won't solve anything," a chubby man in an old pea green jacket muttered to the man next to him. "Let's just do what they say."

The woman in white closed her eyes, not wanting to use the energy to roll them.

However the woman sitting next to her, wearing a myriad of different shades of blue, nodded eagerly. "Oh let's, I want to go home."

"Yes," Henry said hastily. "Why do we start with finding out what exactly happened here. Let's start at the beginning of the night."

"You're not going to interview us one by one?" The woman in red drawled.

Henry turned his head a quarter of inch to Betty.

They had discussed this on the drive over. Each of the six couldn't be trusted alone, because they eagerly dispose of one of them and flee the scene. And unless they all had a hand in murdering Mr. Meade, as a group neither one would risk outing themselves in front of the others. Prison aside, they had their reputations to think of.

They were at one point or another in their lives rich, successful, and famous people that hit a dry spell.

Amanda Tanen, a failed actress and singer who never quite made it big out of the Jazz Clubs downtown. Nick Pepper notorious for becoming a playboy who invested a bit to heavily in the stock market, when his stock of choice Yoplait took a big nosedive. Wilhelmina Slater who despite her success in setting fashion dos and don'ts and with friends that usually cross the red carpet had yet to lock her own running magazine. Marc. St. James, once a star of Broadway took a risky lead in a movie and plunged from his high reaching stars. Cliff St Paul promising photographers who only used to have movie stars pose for him was now reduced to paparazzi level. And last but not least Christina McKinney who after years of struggles became a renowned fashion designer only to have that credit snatched away.

Each for some reason or another had a motive to kill Bradford Meade. But as Henry pointed out to both Betty and Kenny back in the office, the motive might be different than the usual assumption, which made this six suspects all the more dangerous.

Which was why Betty had not protested as much as usual when he handed her a pistol with its safety locked on, for just in case. She vowed not to use it hoping , rational thinking and a clear head will solve all matters.

"Who's going to start?" Henry asked to the group as Betty poised her pen over her notebook.

"Who arrived first?" Betty added.

"I did," Nick said, stretching the yellow fabric of his suit.

"When?"

"A quarter to seven just before it started to rain….."

* * *

A/N: For those who haven't guessed yet:

Miss Scarlet-Amanda

Professor Plum-Marc

Colonel Mustard-Nick

Mr. Green-Cliff

Ms Peacock- Christina

Ms White-Willy

Also this was somewhat inspired by CloakedHestia's lovely The Case of Meade Estate.


	2. In which the guests arrive

Chapter Two

At first Nick Pepper had decided not to attend the dinner. He wasn't really fond of the old bastard that was Mr. Meade, though his daughter was entirely different story. But the more he thought about it, the more he considered it was all for the best. He needed to utilize every networking opportunity that came at hand after.

So he stood there in front of the Meade Mansion, his collar turn up against the cold, waiting patiently to be let in.

In moment, a feisty maid appeared in ruffle skirt that was short enough in all the right places.

"Have you come for the dinner?" she asked, knowing full well the look he was giving her. "You're the first to arrive."

Nick plucked his collar.,"Can't start things without the Pepper."

The maid rolled her eyes, but otherwise very professionally led the way down the hall.

The numerous paintings and artwork that covered the walls were enough even to cause him to tear his eyes from the short ruffled skirt. Ornate carpeting muffled their footsteps though the grandfather clock by the stairs clicked softly about. He passed a statue that had what looked to mythological warrior pointing to the east. Nick gave it a curious glance.

"You find many of those about," the maid said with a sniff. "Mr. Meade has a thing about collections. Anything you can imagine. You wanted a tour of the house?"

Nick leaned in closer to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I like a tour about-"

Fortunately his words were cut off by the tolling of the doorbell.

"I must get that," the maid said with a smile, plucking his hand off of her. "Take a seat in the library."

Grumbling Nick settled in the room. Slumping to his chair he glowered at the many books about him. What kind of person made their guest wait for them in the library? There wasn't going to be anything to draw his attention here.

"Books! What's a room full of books doing here!" a blond in seducing red dress cried out.

Nick smirked, changing his mind right away. If the others guests were like this, then forget the old man.

"It's called a library," the maid said as the doorbell rang again. "Wait here."

Nick brushed back his hair, "Hello there."

The woman in red made a disgusted face. "No. Don't even start." She sat down across the room, crossing her leg and reaching into her little purse for mirror.

"Why aren't you armed and dangerous," Nick leered.

When the maid returned with Christina and Cliff, they found Amanda single-mindedly beating Nick with her shoe.

"Looks like it's getting festive in here," Christiana quipped as Cliff went to drag Amanda away from Nick.

"Please no death," the maid wearingly, "it's always spoils a dinner party."

She went and brought in the last of the guests, and they all began to make awkward small talk that was so awkward they settled on sitting in uncomfortable silence.

"So where," Whiliamenia said finally, "is our esteemed host?" She snapped open her purse, "I hope his lovely children aren't here to entertain us."

"No, it definitely says Mr. Bradford Meade," Cliff pulled out a slightly crumple invitation. Marc wrinkled his nose at the state. If you squinted you could see the faded gold trim and once brilliant white paper. "But didn't say what the business is about."

"I hoping for food," Nick said pulling at the lapels of his collar. He sneered at Cliff. "Not that you need any."

As a mild look of reproach crossed his face, Christina interjected quickly, "You keep invitations with you?"

Cliff shrugged, falling back to his easygoing attitude, "It's not like I have many chance to go to fancy parties anymore."

"Well I still do," Amanda pronounced tossing her blond locks.

"And we all know why," Nick muttered.

"Did you say something?"

"Yes, I was wondering why the old man hasn't-"

The door opened again and the assorted guests all turned towards it, hoping to see their distinguished host. Instead to their disappointment, the maid, and what looked like to be her young son, wheeled in a cart with glasses and a few bottles of wine.

"Mr. Meade will be meeting you at dinner. Dinner however will be delayed." She gestured to her son, who began to hand the guests a wine glass. "Would you like refreshment till then?"

"That would be lovely, dears," Christina said eagerly taking a glass from the boy.

At her voice, the boy broke his professional nature. "You're Christina McKinney! The famous fashion designer who dressed Fey Sommers, Gia Gonbardo, and-"

"Justin!" The maid hissed, she added something in fluid syllables of another language. "Remember to always be professional."

The boy grumbled slightly but did as he was bid.

"Why is dinner delayed," Wilhelmina asked as she watched with narrowed eyes as Justin poured her drink, "Mr. Meade is always someone who runs things on time."

"You would know wouldn't you?" Amanda remarked.

Wilhelmina glanced up from her glass of wine, giving the blond a piercing look. Amanda jumped, quickly frustrated.

"Now you know," Marc said to her, sympathy in his voice, "why she's the called the White Witch."

"There was a mishap in the kitchen. Papi- Our cook, had some trouble."

"I told him telenovelas are bad-"

"Justin," the maid smiled tightly guiding her son to the rolling cart. "Take this back, and go check the arrangements in the dining room."

The boy did as he was bid, though he grumbled slightly as he pushed the cart out the room.

"If any the ladies wish to freshen up, the powder room in right out this door," the maid said, "I'll inform you when dinner is ready."

She flounced out the room under Nick's careful eyes.

"You seem easily amused," Marc commented dryly, "can't keep your eyes on the prize can you?"

"I am keeping them on it." Nick retorted reaching for lighter and cigarette. "Do any of you mind?"

"Yes, I don't smoke and won't be allowed anywhere near the foul smell." Wilhelmina replied, her face incapable of making a scowl.

"More like the witch's face will melt," Christina said in undertone to Cliff.

With disgust, Nick replaced his lighter. "I guess that means no." he groaned rising to his feet pacing angrily about the library. "What I am going to do until the old man gets here? Read!"

"Well this is a library," Amanda said studying her crimson tipped nails. "I'm sure people do something like that here."

"Like you ever read a book before," Nick scowled.

"If you want to talk about books "The Adventures of the Speckled Band" is quite good," Cliff said.

The people in the room all turned to face him with varying digress of disgust on their faces.

"Or maybe not," Cliff said reaching for his wine glass.

"Don't drink too much," Marc said absently, "you know what happens when you get drunk."

Amanda's eyes widened, "you too know each other?"

"Well," Marc said blinking rather fast, "I wouldn't call it knowing each other…"

"I beg to differ," Cliff said curtly.

Marc forced a laugh, as Wilhelmina eyed them suspiciously, "But we don't have to talk about that! What do you think old man Meade is up to?"

"Well it's hardly likely he's selling something," Christina said, "or at least not to us."

"You mean this is more than just a dinner party?" Amanda said surprised.

"There's always a reason for a group of people to gather together," Wilhelmina said tartly, "that's the first thing you do in any sort of business."

"You don't own a business," Nick said without thinking. He regretted his words as she gave him a frosty glare.

"The point is, I don't want to waste my night waiting for Bradford."

Once again the door opened.

"If you follow me," the maid said, "dinner is served."

As Nick went to climb to his feet, Christina knocked him down back to the couch. "Ladies first," she said in a slightly slurred voice dropping her glass onto the table.

With Nick at the end of the line, they followed the maid into the dining room where there were six places set along a long table, a seventh chair placed at the head although there were no place settings.

"Mr. Meade won't be joining us," Cliff asked took his seat.

"He's a bit busy," the maid said tersely. "Enjoy the meal."

"At least the old bastard isn't going to ruin my appetite," Nick muttered picking up his fork and knife. "What is this?"

"Something that is going to ruin my appetite," Amanda cried out pushing the dish away. "It looks like it was alive!"

"Usually most meat was once alive," Christina remarked expertly cutting the food.

"You people have no taste," Whiliamenia said expertly slicing the food, "not that I didn't know that already."

They dined in the room, a different servant occasionally coming to check how they were faring. Each time, they inquired about their host, each time they were given vague answers that told them nothing.

Marc already bored with listening to Marc and Christina talk about old films, nudged Amanda with his elbow.

"Isn't the decorating here ghastly," he said exasperatingly, "not only that horribly heavy cabinet is in here, but who decorates their dining room with a giant peacock painting?"

"I know," Amanda said her face curling into a scowl, "It's got these strange eyes, like it's watching us."

Marc rolled his eyes, reaching for his wine glass. "You've been watching too many murder mysteries."

"I have not," she said.

"Of course you have, you all get this worked up with things are strange."

Nick leaned forward, curious. "How do you two know each other? There's no way you guys can be-"

Marc lifted a perfectly waxed eyebrow, "Can be what, nancy boy?"

The insult curling on Nick's lips was cut short by the door snapping open.

"Apologies for my late arrival." Mr. Bradford Meade said unapologetically as he stepped into the room. "A family emergency."

"So you say Bradford," Whiliamenia all but purred, "so you always say."

"Mr. Meade, I suppose there's a reason why you've brought us 'ere?" Christina said slightly slurred. "Fine dining and hospitality aside, I like to know the reason."

"Do not worry about that," Bradford said circling around the table. "Enjoy your meal. It's the last you'll be able to eat in good conscience."

* * *


	3. In which Mr Meade dies

Chapter Three

"I beg your pardon?" Whiliamenia said lowered her glass. "Without a good conscience?"

Bradford smiled, reaching into his pocket. "That's what I like about you Willy. You always jump straight into action."

"And what action is this?" Nick asked alarmed.

The old man I ignored him, pulling a key out his pocket. "You know already, you all do, about why I brought you here."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Amanda said nervously shoving a piece of bread into her mouth. "No idea."

Marc nodded along empathically as he reached for his inhaler.

Cliff on the other hand was looking at Bradford with a curious look. "Mr. Meade, are you proposing blackmail?"

"Such a harsh word," Bradford said sardonically, "trying to buy silence is much better. Especially since it is in your best interests if you cooperate."

He paced about the room, twirling the key between his fingers. "I have run the Meade Cooperation and meet a great of deal of people behind those doors. Most importantly, a seamstress, a creative director, her assistant, a photographer, receptionist, and intern, who all at one point or another worked at Mode Magazine."

"That old rag," Christina exclaimed excessively, "the one that floundered in the market after you order your own children to stop working for it."

"The magazine started to fail after Fey Sommers was killed," Bradford said correcting her smoothly.

"I remember that woman in seclusion," Marc said dryly to Cliff, "never showed her face in public, only in private company they say."

"My children only made the failings worse," Bradford continued, "They lost the ad sponsors, but this isn't about them."

"It's about us isn't it?" Whiliamenia snapped, "You think we did something to your precious pet magazine and you want to shell out the blame."

"Brilliant deduction," Bradford replied, "what you forgot to mention is your exact involvement in the collapse of Mode. The scandalous photo shot, the anonymous phone call, a mysterious file dropped off at the newspapers, and I can mentioned others, and the people involved in which."

"That was years ago," Cliff protested, "what benefit will it do to blackmail us now? I don't know about the others but taking pictures at kids' birthday party doesn't leave me with a lot of money in the pocket."

"It doesn't matter when revenge arrives, but it is no less sweet when it does." Bradford placed the key into the wardrobe lock and turned it twisting the handle. "You have two choices you pay up your dues or-"

"We're going to die!" Amanda screamed hysterically jumping away from the table. "The food, the food poisoned!"

The others paled, Nick even making a show of coughing up his food.

"Always melodramatic," Bradford said sardonically swinging open a door. "Why would I stop to such lows?" Calmly he took out an array of boxes, each tied with a particular colored ribbon. Mutely he handed them passing to the respected owner.

"I always loved presents," Whiliamenia remarked coolly as she untied the ribbon.

"And you'll love this." Bradford muttered to himself.

"Oh my!" Christina knocked over her wine glass as she stared at the knife lying on folded silk.

"What is the meaning of this?" Nick as studying the revolver in his hand.

"Is this some kind of sick joke, because I'm not laughing," Marc said limply holding the candlestick in his hand.

"Each of you holds in your hands a murder weapon." Bradford said. "One which will be placed a scene of murder to ultimately be your undoing if you refuse to do as I say."

Amanda dropped the object in her hand and fell with a heavy thud back into it boxes. Even Whiliamenia's expressionless face displayed a sudden fear.

"Why give us these?" Cliff asked nervously.

"You all have nothing to gain in killing me, but I have everything to gain for use this as leverage."

"Why blackmail us?" Christiana protested, "there were hundreds of employees at Mode, what about one of them?"

"I pick people who will be most useful to me, and you six have secrets that scream-"

His words were drowned out as the room plunged into sudden darkness. There was a crash. Followed by a muffle sound.

Then a high pitched scream.

* * *

Betty carefully carried the chair across the room, towards the file cabinet. The problem wasn't much because of her short stature, but because her partners were tall men who tended to forget taking her height in consideration when stacking the records.

Placing the wobbly chair in front of the cabinet, she stepped onto it going through the files. Henry kept the finical records in order, and Kenny kept tabs on their clients, particularly the female ones, but it was Betty's task to organize the case files. Not that they were ever out of order, Kenny tended to insert fake cases in, such as the one dealing with the staged death of one of the-

The telephone rang, startling her out her thoughts. Betty lost her balance, and after a moment whirling her arms about, she fell hard onto the floor. Half the files lying on top of the cabinet soon joined her on the floor.

"Betty!" Henry came sliding out the office, still holding a calculator in his hand. "Are you all right?"

"You know me," Betty said jokingly pulling the folder off her head. "I'm just clumsy."

"Phone!" Kenny bellowed as it continued to ring.

"Can't get to it," Henry called back, as he went to help Betty up, "you answer it!"

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked adjusting her glasses.

Henry considered her words. "No. But he's the closest."

As he reached for the closet file, Kenny appeared through the door pulling the corded phone as far it would go.

One hand on the receiver he said to Betty, "You need to take this. I can't understand a single word."

Puzzled, Betty took the phone. After listening to the caller she burst in explosive of a lyrical language, her hand gestures punctured the horrified look on her face.

It was the horrified look on her face that caught Henry's attention. It spelled trouble.

"Who was it?" Kenny asked, as Betty hung the phone up.

"My sister," she said glumly.

"Hilda?" Kenny said surprised, "why didn't she speak like a regular person when she heard me?"

"There was a reason for secrecy," Henry said pensively.

Betty nodded. "She rather us come in instead of the police."

"Well the local police inspector is an-"

"It sounds interesting," Henry said loudly over Kenny. "What happened over at the Meade Estate? Daniel nearly get blackmailed by conning foreigner again? Or maybe-"

"Mr. Meade's dead."

"No wonder Hilda wants us to come," Kenny scoffed, "she doesn't want your father to get subjected to police investigation again."

"-and there's six suspects."

Henry eyebrows lifted. "Now that's a puzzle."

"Here he goes with the puzzles." Kenny groaned. "Let's go." He crossed back to the office to grab his coat. "You want the lucky handgun?" He stressed the word, emphasizing the correct terminology.

"Better safe than sorry," Henry muttered glancing at the files.

"Leave it," Betty said as he picked up one. "I'll get it later."

Nodding, he left the hall. Betty went to her desk, and picked up the portrait of her and her family. She stared at it for a moment before grabbing her bag and coat.

She found the boys out in the street arguing whose turn it was to drive the Rolls-Royce.

"You drove it the last time," Henry said holding the keys away, "and ran it off road."

Kenny gave a side look at the bent mirror. "It was accident."

"We have to get there fast, before the police arrive," Betty said as she locked their building. She added apologetically, "and you always drive the speed limit Henry."

Scowling he tossed the keys to Kenny who pumped his fist excitedly. "Don't you a dare put another scratch on it."

"Done." Kenny said jumping into the driver's seat.

Betty climbed into the back, rifling through her bag checking for her notebook, when she heard Henry's warning.

"Grab on to something before he-"

Betty slammed forward into the seat, as the car roared down the street. The sudden pressure on her ears stopped her from hearing most of Henry yelling at Kenny to slow down and Kenny retorting he couldn't hear him.

Betty, stuck in the space between the seats, just gritted her teeth and bore it.

Though Kenny was gunning the car at around sixty-five, veering dangerous close to maximum speed of the car, the trip seemed to talk longer than usual, much longer.

And then the car came to a sudden halt. She heard the door open. Henry stomped out the car to check for any damage, preferring that to risk losing his temper at his friend.

"I told you should have paid more than your share for the car," Betty said to Kenny as she pulled herself up. "Then he wouldn't take it so personally."

"If only I didn't spend that week's earnings at the night club," Kenny grumbled.

That reminded her of something. "Speaking of which…" she then explained to him the benefits of him keeping quiet, better for the investigation at least.

He could only agree as Henry poked his head in the window. "Your sister, she's waiting for us. Go park the car in the garage."

"And miss all the action, forget about it."

"Kenny-"

"You won't miss anything," Betty said calmly.

"Just the details about how Mr. Meade was murdered and all that."

"Do you want to you pay for the damage you did to tires. They were suppose to last for a years not-"

"Hilda says there six suspects," Betty said loudly as jumped out the car opening her notebook, "should we not include the other hired help?"

"Yes," Henry said blinking, distracted back to the case. Kenny took this as his chance to crank the car and drive around the back. "But don't you think it'll be a little strange?"

"Interrogating my own father? Long as it's not hard as getting to him to take his medication."

"Six suspects," Henry said rubbing his chin, "That's important, vital."

"Why's that? Anyone could have killed Mr. Meade."

"Because the six were the only ones in the room with him."

Betty glanced up to see her older sister, gesturing from the side door. "Come on, don't stand there, someone will notice."

"Wait for me," Kenny called and ran towards them.

"Keep quiet," Betty hissed.

"Oh," Kenny looked about, and said in a loud whisper, "I remember now."

"Keys," Henry said holding his out.

"Now's not time," Hilda grabbed Betty pulling her inside. "You got to convince them not leave."

"They haven't left yet?" Betty said ripping her hand away from her sister. "What did you do barricade the door."

"It worked didn't it?"

"Might be more than that," Henry muttered, "They didn't want to appear guilty." He clarified as they turned to him. "Fleeing the see demotes guilt."

"You might be right," Hilda remarked, "Given we can't tell what killed Mr. Meade."

"You said there were six potential weapons!" Betty exclaimed.

Kenny stared at Betty, "You didn't mention that!"

"The mathematical odds of whom and what killed him…" Henry muttered to himself.

"Unless you can you can find anything from a charred body, you much smarter than I am."

"There was fire?" Betty remarked.

"Yes, destroyed half the Dining room. The half Mr. Meade was standing in. They're all in the library now. We locked the weapons up as well."

"All is left is to find out what happened." Henry muttered.

"And talk to them," Betty said glancing at her sister significantly, "we need to talk to them before the inspector gets here."

"Just waiting for you all to stop talking," she retorted before, opening the door to the library.

If she was any less professional, Betty would have dropped her notebook. She recognized every person in the room from the moment the first indolent glare came her way.

This was not going to be good.


End file.
